


Consigned to Oblivion

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, First Time, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Power Imbalance, Rank Disparity, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 14:38:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15798582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Washington faces an impossible decision, but Hamilton beats him to it.





	Consigned to Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Face_of_Poe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/gifts).



The worst part is, Washington can find no way around it.

Even as he consults with his most trusted generals. Even when he dismisses nearly all of his staff to fetch their dinners, retaining only his right hand man to help him draft the necessary letters. Even while Hamilton sits—poised in his place at the end of the worktable—writing diligently despite the way Washington paces back and forth behind him.

It will be a suicide mission. There is no point deluding himself otherwise. A necessary reroute to distract the enemy and spare the bulk of his army from being cornered. Failure to act will leave them vulnerable, and Washington _will not_ stand idly by while his forces are wiped out.

Dictating the order is easier than it should be, considering Washington knows damn well he is signing his own death warrant. Even as he skirts the issue of who will lead the assault for the time being—he needs this letter drafted, and Hamilton will surely stop and argue with him when he realizes what Washington intends—the understanding of it sits like lead in his gut. Heavy in his chest, itchy beneath his skin. An awareness he does not want and cannot escape.

Despite Washington's caution, Hamilton pauses before they are finished drafting the order to ask, "Who will you send to command the decoy contingent?" It's a serious question. Somber. Hamilton is clearly reading between the lines and intuiting that Washington is going to order one of his officers to die for their cause. A thing that they are largely braced for, yes—that is the nature of war—but usually there is at least the hope of survival.

Not this time. And though neither of them has said so aloud, it's clear they both understand this uncomfortable truth.

Washington has always entertained the superstition that he cannot be killed in battle—he has taken incomprehensible risks and yet walked away uninjured every time—but such superstitions won't protect him here. One cannot gamble against a true certainty of death.

Which means he knows just how costly the pronouncement is when he says in a soft but unyielding voice, "I will lead them myself."

No surprise that Hamilton attempts to dissuade him. Adamantly, fiercely, and at enormous length. They argue for so long Washington begins to wonder if the rest of his staff will return before he manages to convince Hamilton to finish drafting the letter. He told his aides to take their time for once, but he has never known anyone capable of arguing a point as thoroughly as his boy.

But Washington knows he's right, and he stands firm. Command of the unit _must_ fall to him, no matter how grudging his sacrifice.

Hamilton is utterly silent as he finishes drafting the orders and hands the foolscap to Washington for final approval. Washington reads the letter through—despite the fact that normally he does not bother when it comes to Hamilton's flawless work—reviewing every word. The number of soldiers that will march with him. The hour tomorrow afternoon at which they will depart. The secrecy with which they will need to move.

When he is finished he signs his name at the bottom of the final page. He knows better than to comment on the silence that has settled like a thundercloud across the work room. And when the first of his aides trickle back through the door, Washington does not try to stop Hamilton from storming out of headquarters without a word.

Washington himself retreats after checking in with Tench—someone has to coordinate the rest of the staff in Hamilton's absence—then returns to his quarters to draft more private correspondence. Personal matters. Financial affairs. A final letter to Martha that cannot possibly suffice in conveying how sorry he is, or how grateful for all her years of friendship.

He does not eat supper. He isn't hungry. He will have to manage a proper breakfast before departing tomorrow—a long journey should never begin on an empty stomach—but tonight he can't tolerate the thought of food. He very much doubts he will sleep, though he'll have to try. 

It's nearly midnight when the knock sounds at his chamber door.

The first floor of headquarters has been empty for over an hour; Washington heard the last of his aides depart, the creak of the heavy front door almost directly beneath his room, the thud of the latch. Which means there is only one person this can be, if they possess the brass key necessary to enter the farm house at this hour.

He sets aside the letter he has just finished sealing—a dull but necessary appendix to his last will and testament—and crosses creaking floorboards. Opens the door. He does not fall back when he finds Hamilton glaring up at him with excess fire in his dark, expressive eyes. Those eyes are dry, but there's unmistakable redness in them, visible even in the flickering lantern light. There is stubbornness and defiance in the set of the boy's narrow shoulders.

"Alexander." Washington's tone holds no hint of surprise.

"Sir," Hamilton says in a strained voice.

A heartbeat passes in total stillness, and then Hamilton storms across the threshold so aggressively that Washington falls back a step. Another beat, and there is a heavy thump as Hamilton shoves the door shut and throws the latch. Sealing out the world. Assuring that they are truly alone.

Neither one of them speaks a word into the silence that follows. They don't need to. There are things Washington _should_ say—protests he should offer when Hamilton moves into his space—denials when his boy kisses him.

He should pretend he does not want this. He should send Alexander away. But Washington has spent years denying himself, and for once he is not strong enough to refuse his more selfish nature. Worse, he is a poor dissembler at the best of times. Now, on the cusp of his own mortality, he would not fool his clever boy if he tried.

He does not try.

Washington isn't stupid. He knows this is a goodbye. A final, desperate bid in a negotiation that has been playing out since Hamilton first agreed to join his staff. They've been dancing around this too long—driving each other to distraction—with only the straining edges of decorum and guilt stopping Washington from accepting what Alexander has been wordlessly offering for years.

Guilt and decorum have no power over him now. He frames Hamilton's face between his hands and returns the kiss. Slow and patient at first. Commanding and forceful as his boy's proximity strips away his limited control. He slides his tongue possessively past eagerly parted lips. Hamilton is every bit the contradiction in this that he is in every other aspect of his young and improbable life. Forward, brash, demanding. But also compliant and submissive. Even sweet. Allowing Washington to direct the kiss, humming a contented sound against his general's lips.

Washington is not patient when the kiss ends. He strips away his boy's uniform, desperate for more. Desperate to have him spread out and eager and willful.

Desperate to see him naked in Washington's bed.

The view, when he achieves it, does not disappoint. A perfect tableau—perhaps the most stunning he has ever seen—a smooth expanse of bare skin, all for him. Alexander wears scars, though fewer than Washington has collected in his own lengthy military career. Dark strands of hair fall loose, framing Hamilton's face and making him seem impossibly young. Washington's heart clenches just looking at him, and he stands frozen beside the bed for a long time. Drinking in the sight of his boy. Memorizing every detail to carry with him, into battle and perhaps even into an afterlife he does not quite believe in.

He's naked himself when he finally joins Hamilton. The bed is easily large enough to accommodate both of them—especially when he pushes Alexander down onto his back and blankets him with Washington's more sizable bulk. Kissing him again. Pinning him soundly, rolling his hips forward in a way that is not entirely idle.

Washington has never bedded a man, but he understands the logistics well enough—and he spares a fleeting regret over the fact that he has nothing slick in his quarters. Nothing sufficient to ease the way, even if Alexander were willing to allow him such a liberty.

It's no tragedy. Washington does not doubt for an instant that they can find satisfaction in other pursuits. He will harbor no regrets when he departs camp tomorrow, save the simple fact of leaving at all.

He's honestly surprised when Hamilton breaks from the kiss and gives a deliberate push against Washington's chest. There's no hint of alarm in the boy's face—no tension in the compact body beneath Washington's weight—but Washington reacts instantly anyway. Easing back, allowing Alexander to reverse their positions and guide _him_ down onto his back.

A shiver runs the length of his spine when Hamilton straddles him.

Another moment and Hamilton rises onto his knees, shifting to position himself directly above Washington's hard cock. Alexander's touch is steady as he reaches down, circles his general's arousal in a firm grip and guides it between his thighs. Presses the leaking tip against impossibly tight heat.

Then he sinks down.

Washington stares up at his boy, and disbelief ignites a wildfire in his chest. He expects resistance—and there is some at first—the tight ring of muscle slow to let him in. But there's slickness too. Oh god, his boy prepared himself before coming here. And as the head of Washington's cock breaches the trembling body, Alexander breathes a sound that is unmistakably pleasure.

Hamilton moves slowly, easing downward by maddening degrees. He takes Washington deeper, inch by taunting inch. The tight heat ignites ecstasy along Washington's nerves, and he curls both hands around Alexander's bony hips. He barely resists the urge to force their coupling faster. It's with difficulty he lets his boy maintain this gradual, deliberate pace.

When Hamilton at last settles flush against him—when Washington's cock is entirely sheathed—Alexander braces as though to rise once more.

_Now_ Washington tightens his grip more forcefully—not to urge Alexander to motion, but to keep him still—precisely where he is. This instant is improbable and perfect, and damn it, Washington needs a moment to savor this. To memorize every detail. To appreciate what is happening, before sensation and arousal carry him away.

Hamilton stills on top of him, body clenching around Washington's cock and eliciting a groan from his general that sounds more like agony than pleasure—though pleasure is all he feels.

Washington's eyes close of their own volition. When he opens them he finds Alexander staring at him with too many feelings to parse. There could be awe among them; dark eyes have gone wide in the lantern light. There is certainly arousal; the boy's stiff cock renders that observation redundant. And perhaps there is even affection. Washington hopes he isn't imagining the glimpse of something like fondness.

When he is confident he won't spend with disappointing swiftness, Washington loosens his hold. He prays it's enough of a gesture to convey that he's ready. He doesn't possess enough coherence to say the words.

Hamilton smiles down at him in answer—the expression is almost a smirk—then begins deliberately to move. Rises higher so that all but the tip of Washington's cock slips from his body; rocks downward, taking him deep once more.

Washington makes no effort to guide the boy's pace. But after three more delicious repetitions, he can't bear to lie passively on his back. He sits up instead, the movement sudden enough that Hamilton breathes a startled yelp as Washington's arms wrap around his waist and tuck their bodies chest-to-chest. Another second and Washington eases his spine back against the headboard, tugging Hamilton with him. Washington's cock is still buried to the hilt inside his boy, and the pleasure of even this indirect stimulation makes his senses swim.

Imperfect stillness falls between them. Alexander's hands settle high on Washington's chest, palms warm against bare skin. This time there is no doubting the expression in his eyes—no mistaking it for anything besides affection. A heartbeat passes. Two. Three. And then Hamilton kisses him again. 

It's a pleading, frantic, eloquent sort of kiss. Hamilton twines one arm across Washington's shoulders to keep him close. But he leaves his other hand—his right hand—exactly where it is. Heavy like a promise over Washington's rushing heart.

The kiss breaks, and Hamilton resumes his halted rhythm. He groans aloud and ducks his head, burying his face against Washington's throat. Washington's breath hitches and he tucks his own face to Alexander's shoulder, moaning at a deliberate clench around his cock, shivering when teeth graze his pulse point.

He is nearly at the precipice already, never mind how short a time it's been. Hamilton moves more quickly now, speeding his pace, riding Washington's cock with an air of desperation. He's panting hard, breath hot over Washington's skin. Washington can feel Hamilton's cock nudging his stomach with every rise and fall, and he unwinds one arm from his boy's waist in order to take him in hand. He savors the slick weight along his palm, the slide of silky flesh through the circle of his fingers.

They both spend at nearly the exact same moment—Hamilton under the fumbling ministrations of his general's hand—Washington a split second later when the hot vice around his cock tightens with Hamilton's orgasm. They cling to each other, muffling their cries in sweat-slick skin, and Washington crushes his boy close as he gasps through the aftershocks.

He is selfishly delighted when Hamilton _stays_. After they clean up, after the lantern is extinguished, after _everything_. Washington tucks his boy back down in the bed, and Alexander curls along his side. Wordless and warm and humming a sound suspiciously like contentment.

\- — - — - — - — -

When Washington wakes, Hamilton is absent. The empty side of the mattress has already cooled.

The indent of Alexander's head on the second pillow proves Washington didn't imagine the events of last night, but as to other proofs there is nothing. No scrap of clothing, no sign of the kerchief that cleaned them both. Dawn is barely cresting through an open window—that window was not open when Washington returned to bed—and the sounds of the camp's morning routines are well underway outside.

He tries not to be disappointed. Tries not to think about the fact that he will be departing camp today, with no hope of returning. There will be no further opportunities to wake with Hamilton in his arms.

It's ridiculous to feel cheated of such a morning when last night should not have happened at all.

Washington dons his uniform with an unfamiliar feeling of finality, and descends into an active headquarters. His aides are already hard at their tasks in the workroom.

Alexander is conspicuously absent.

"Where is Colonel Hamilton?" Washington's brow furrows. Even considering their mutual lack of rest, he would not have expected Alexander to be late.

It's John Laurens who stands and, with an expression of barely contained emotion, answers, "Hamilton left three hours ago, sir. Well before sunrise."

Washington's blood ices. "Left? To what end?"

Laurens's eyes narrow. "With a contingent of troops on _your orders_ , sir."

No.

Oh god, _no_.

A feeling worse than suspicion begins hardening to certainty in Washington's chest. There is only one explanation for the complicated mix of emotion on Laurens's face, but Washington can't bring himself to accept without further proof.

"I gave no such orders," he says in a voice thick with denial.

Dark eyes narrow even further, though confusion rises alongside flashing anger.

"Sir." It's Lafayette who interrupts, standing from his seat and crossing to the workroom door where Washington still hovers.

He hands over a letter written in Alexander's unmistakably artful hand. Washington reads. It is identical to the letter they drafted last night, in all but two vital particulars. The hour of departure. And the officer assigned to command the doomed force.

" _No_ ," he snarls so forcefully Lafayette jerks away, and the rest of his aides flinch.

Washington's signature at the bottom of the letter is a near perfect forgery—one of Hamilton's many uncommon skills. Usually an asset, but oh, not this time.

"Are these not your orders?" Lafayette asks. He sounds subdued and miserable.

Washington's hands fist, crumpling the parchment, and he closes his eyes. There's no point explaining. Hamilton is hours gone on an essential mission, following an unpredictable route designed for greatest speed and secrecy. Even if Washington could spare the manpower to chase him down, they would never find the contingent.

There is likewise no point searching for the letter containing his true orders. Hamilton will certainly have burned every page.

He opens his eyes and finds the entire room staring at him. With measured difficulty he unclenches his hands and smoothes the letter. Keeping his voice even is among the most difficult tasks he has ever managed in a life full of challenges. He hands the parchment back to Lafayette. The young Marquis makes no comment about the fact that Washington's hands are shaking.

"These orders stand."

"Sir." Lafayette nods as he accepts the letter.

Washington turns abruptly for the hall. He cannot remain here. He cannot _breathe_.

He pauses with his hand on the door jamb and his back turned to his aides.

He doesn't dare face them to speak. "When Alexander returns, I want to see him immediately."

The words are spoken with a confidence that rings hollow in his own ears, and for a moment he nearly succumbs to the desire to sink to his knees. There is a scream somewhere in his chest, trying to claw its way out, but Washington chokes it down. Buries it alongside the ugly and unwelcome truth.

Alexander _won't_ return.

Through miracle or willpower, Washington keeps his feet. He retreats. Numb and empty and lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Costly](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**


End file.
